


Watson's Winchesters

by OneWhoLooksAtStars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Multi, Multipairing, Sabriel - Freeform, sherlock/supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4871269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoLooksAtStars/pseuds/OneWhoLooksAtStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John..."</p><p> </p><p>"Sherlock! NO!"</p><p> </p><p>     "Sammy, just stop! Sto-"</p><p> </p><p>"No Dean, I'm not going to take Dad's crap anymore! We've all got our own grief! But this isn't going to bring Father back! All his crazy training and running around, it isn't going to bring... Father..."</p><p> </p><p>     "Sammy... Sam, you know what. I don't want to fight anymore. Not today."</p><p> </p><p>"The Gates of Hell! They're opening!"</p><p> </p><p>     "Mr. Watson, the Winchesters. Hehe, how glad we are that you decided to accompany us this evening."</p><p> </p><p>"Dean. Dean Winchester. It seems I've fallen for... you."</p><p> </p><p>     "You can run, you can hide Winchesters, but you can't protect your father... or that darling angel of yours forever!" </p><p> </p><p>"I know why... why you do this John. Why you are always, so stubborn and fixated with finding me. 22 years ago, that night, that one glorious night. I killed the world's one and only, greatest Supernatural Detective of all time, the famous Hunter... Sherlock Holmes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

“Come on, let’s say good night to your brother,” setting down Dean, Sherlock flicked on the light switch to his right, little Sam reacting by softly crying in his crib.

Dean, barely able to look over the bars of the crib, hoisted himself over them, bending down and kissing Sam’s little forehead. “Good night Sam.”

Sherlock followed his son, bending over and kissing Sam’s cheek as well. With a smile spread across his face, he whispered, “Good night love.” Little happy groans enacted from the baby’s throat, happy in his father’s company. 

Sneaking into the room, John leaned against the door frame, smiling to himself at the scene. Sherlock and their two sons. Sherlock, his husband. He almost couldn’t believe it. 

Smile sprawled across his lips, John spoke, “Hey Dean.”

The small boy turned, recognizing the voice as his ‘Dad’. “Daddy!” He excitedly yelped, running into John’s arms. As the blond lifted his son into the air, he greeted, “Hey bud.”

Joking with his son, looking between the grinning boy and his obviously entertained husband, John spoke, “So what do you think, you think Sammy’s old enough to toss around a football yet?”

“Noooo Daddy,” Dean shook his head.

Hardly suppressing a grin, Sherlock passed the two out the door, “You got him?”

“I got him,” John shifted Dean in his arms. Warmth bubbling in his chest, he hugged his tired son, rubbing his back as the boy grew limp in his arms. “Sweet dreams Sam.”

Flicking off the light, John left with Dean through the hall, taking him to bed.

Sam was left alone, happily groaning at the objects that flew overhead him, attention caught in the way they shifted and spun in the wind-less room. A calming melody played, trying to help the baby sleep, but only growing more and more ominous as the night went on. 

The clock’s tick grew louder and louder, striking into Sam’s little ears, the flickering lights growing more erratic by the second.

A high pitched, mechanical noise woke Sherlock up over the baby-radio, shortly followed by Sam’s broken up crying. Groaning lightly, Sherlock reached over the nightstand and flicked on the lamp. “John.” Shifting out of the covers, he looked over at Mr. Watson’s usual sleeping spot, but he wasn’t there. Pouting slightly, he stretched, getting up and out of the covers.

Yawning quietly and rubbing his eyes, he shuffled over to Sam’s room, noting that the door was open. Sleep blurred his vision, showing Sherlock that a figure was standing over Sam’s bed in the dark, so he assumed it was John. “John… is he hungry?”

The dark figure shushed him, so Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders, “Okay.”

Walking back across the hall sleepily, Sherlock approached the stairs. The light flickered in the corner, which he went to investigate, trying to fix the bulb while sleep drunk. After a few taps, I worked again, causing a worried sigh to escape his throat.

A sudden sound enacted from down the stairs, blue lights flashing from down in the living room. As Sherlock walked down to investigate, half way down the stairs, he watched John asleep on the couch, a soft snoring coming from him in his odd sleeping position, the telly still lighting up before him.

Dread filled Sherlock’s gut. Who was upstairs with Sam?

Running back to the room, he spoke to himself quietly, “Sammy!”

“Sammy!” He called out, running even quicker. As he approached the door way, Sherlock yelled. 

John woke, startled. “Sherlock!” The brunette’s continual scream led him upstairs, to Sam’s room, the blond already pumping with adrenaline. “Sherlock!”

Bursting through the door way, John stalled before Sam’s bed, realizing no one was there. He sighed in relief. His son giggled and noised happiness at the sight of his dad. Breathing heavy, the blond tried to calm himself, gazing down over his new baby son.

“Hey Sammy,” the man mostly spoke to himself. “Okay,” he smiled.

About to turn back, John’s eye caught something next to Sam. In the dark, he investigated, touching the strange dark mark on his sheets. From above him, other dark spots of warm liquid spilled onto the back of his hand.

Warily, worry scrunching his face, he gazed up wards, a yell erupting from his throat.

Sherlock. Sherlock was pinned to the ceiling, under-eyes dark and raw, his torso red and torn open. His pale eyes stared at John, straight into his soul. They had always done that, but now, it struck a chill into the very core of John’s heart. The blood dripped down on him again as he continued to yell. He fell to the floor at the sight.

“No! Sherlock!”

Fire erupted from the ceiling, almost instantly encasing the room in its sporadic orange heat. The source originated from Sherlock, slowly consuming him too. John continued to yell. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. All John could do was watch, stricken in fear, as his beloved was consumed by the tongues of flames.

Sam’s high pitched squeal brought John back to reality, finally getting him up off the floor. He grabbed Sam, biting his lip. He couldn’t just leave Sherlock! Not like this! 

In the hall, Dean yelled out for John. Hobbling over, baby Sam still clutched in his arms, he passed the bundle over to Dean, instructing him loud enough over the roaring flames. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don’t look back! Now Dean! GO!”

As told, Dean held his baby brother tightly, running down the stairs and out the front door. John returned to the chaotic room, still lit aflame. “Sherlock! NO!”

Finally, it seemed his corpse had burned up, releasing a large shaft of flaming energy straight for the blond.

In the front lawn, Dean watched through the window outside, speaking to his brother. “It’s ok Sammy.” John ran through the front door, still seeing his sons too close to the house, he scooped up Dean, easily able to carry both of them, the adrenaline pushing him to the street.

“I got you.” After those words, the flame touched the glass, shattering it. The tongues of heat stuck out into the night sky, illuminating the house as the room exploded like a horrible, dreadful firework.

It wasn’t soon before the firemen came, alarms blaring, men in large yellow suits running from up and down the street towards the house. Hoses sprayed, light flashed, men yelled, but all of it was dull to the three of them. Holding Sam close to his chest, even the sensation of the baby’s smooth skin was gone to him. All of it was gone, now that Sherlock wasn’t here.

How could one night take away John’s one and only true love? What had even did this? Where the Winchesters even safe anymore?

Even as the three sat there on the Cop car’s hood, lost, tired, cold, one thing was certain in their minds. They would find whatever did this. And they would do what they do best.

 

The Family Business.


	2. Dean's Doses of the Past Days

The world flew around those old windows of the Impala. As a child, he always gazed out those windows, worried where they would go next, if their father would fall asleep at the wheel, or if Sam was going to find out about all the bad things his father told him to keep Sam out of. About what his dad did every waking moment of his life. 

Sam would only be seen by the top of his hair from behind his book of the week, eating away at the words, no, devouring them. With a cauldron of boiling feelings in Dean's gut, he'd just pout his lips and turn towards the shotgun's window, gazing out at the world beyond. At all the lives of the people outside, wishing he was one of them.

How his gut yearned for the answers, what would it be like to be nor-

The honking behind him made Dean jump, throwing his thoughts off track. Suddenly, his loud stereo blared back to life in his ears, the green street light seeming to blind him from out of his haze. His one-handed grip on the chilled steering wheel brought back his nerves. The honking continued, followed by barely audible shouts from Dean's bumper.

He shot forward, foot to gas in a second. The light turned red just as he passed under it, earning him some fingers pointed to the sky behind him. Face curling into a 'sorry-not-sorry' grin, Dean continued down the straight road, noticing that the trees were encasing the street overhead. He turned back to the side, biting his lip, thrust into his troubled thoughts again.

What was he going to tell Sammy?

The large green road sign flew past Dean and the Impala. Stanford University.

====

"Babe. What's wrong," Jessica drunkenly spoke, still mustering the strength to get up after him. Grabbing a bat nearby, Sam turned back to her, voice soft, "It's okay. Just stay there. I got this."

Breathing slow, his steps careful yet swift, Sam maneuvered around his apartment, searching for the culprit of all the noise enacting from the living room. Noticing the dark figure behind the couch, Sam waited, then charged behind them with the bat in hand. The mysterious man grabbed his wrist, twisting Sam face down into the table nearby. Quietly in his ear, Dean spoke, breathless, "You always lost at wrestling when we were kids."

Recognizing his brother's voice, he shifted roughly out of Dean's grasp, staring down at his shorter, yet older brother. After both of them quit breathing so heavy from adrenaline, Dean grinned as he spoke, dramatically looking up at his brother. "Wow. You got... taller. Guess we know who got Dad's genes and who got Father's..."

Realizing what he said, who he spoke about, he cleared his throat haphazardly, putting his hands on his hips and rolling on his feet. "So... Stanford, huh?"

Pointedly spouting, Sam replied, "Yeah."

Awkward silence filled the air, tensing their muscles, both's eyes wandering around the room, refusing to gaze at the other. Taking a deep, loud breath, Dean brushed the silence away by clearing his throat.

Sighing, he shook his head, "Look, Sammy... There's something I got to tell ya."

====

"Dad!?"

"Yeah."

"Dad?"

"Yeah."

"Dad? John Watson is missing?"

"Sam, I've said this four times already. Dad went out on a solo mission a few weeks ago, and he never came back."

Pacing back and forth in the alley way outside of his apartment, Sam got louder, "No. A man like him doesn't just disappear from the face of the Earth-"

"He didn't," reaching back into the car, Dean pulled out a leather bound book, slapping it down onto the hood of his 'baby'. 

"Tha-that's Dad's Journal. He never goes anywhere without that thing."

Dean placed his hands in his jacket's pockets, protecting them from the cold night, leaning back against the driver's door. "I know." He sighed, breath vaporizing before his eyes. "I know, Sam. That's why I'm worried. You said so yourself, he never let that out of his sight. Now he's hit the road, no one knows where, without the darn thing. It's all just fishy to me..."

Releasing a large, pent up breath, Sam gazed into his brother's eyes, lowering his voice. "So what now Dean?"

Not bringing himself to say it, Dean looked away, staring from down the alley to his shoe to the vapor that flew towards the sky from his mouth with every breath. Crossing and un-crossing his legs as he stood there, with Sam's eyes on him, the gears in the taller brother's head turning .

"...You want me to go with you. Don't you?"

Sighing, Dean pushed away from the Impala. "It's to help find Da-"

"No Dean! I'm- We're- You know Dad and I haven't talked since... why would I be any help to you?"

Chuckling to himself, he pat his brother's shoulder, tugging his brother in close, "Come on Sammy. Once a Hunter, always a Hunter. A few years at this pretty boy school couldn't have beat that out of you."

Pushing him away, Sam locked their eyes, Dean's smile fading, "Dean. This isn't a game. Or a joke. I said I was done with Hunting, and I meant it."

Walking back up the steps to his apartment, Dean followed behind him, trying to quickly gain back his attention. "Sam. Sammy, look. I know you and Dad don't usually see eye-to-eye, but you have to help me on this..."

Dean grabbed his brother's shoulder, yanking him away from the door back inside, "Dad is in real trouble, if he's not dead already. Now will you help me or not?"

The crickets chirped, the noises of cars sounded from streets over, and the Winchesters stood there, vapor steaming from their nostrils. Finally Sam sighed a chilled breath. 

"What was he hunting?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter already! I'm really excited to write this story! (Thank you Deadmockingbirds for chatting with me, inspiring me, and asking to beta read for me! I will make sure to use your master skills when I need them!)
> 
> A quick note (I usually don't like writing author's notes), this story is only briefly following the story line of Supernatural, so of course they fight the Supernatural beasts and go on hunts, but don't expect this story to follow up on each episode or event as recorded in the show. Some things will be changed and I won't write Sam and Dean's experience for each episode of the show, since that would be boring after a while, and I'll throw some of my own thought-up hunts in. So please don't expect the story to be a copy of Supernatural, you have been warned.
> 
> Of course there will be lots of gayness (but well-built relationships if I write right) later in the story, and lots of feels, maybe even some smutty scenes by the end of the story from both Destiel and Johnlock, so you are also warned about those.
> 
> But please, do enjoy. (Also, the 29th of September is my birthday, not to shove it down your throat, but if you liked it, could you say Happy Birthday. You're the best!)


	3. John's Dawning

They'd been parked in that car there for what felt like an hour, waiting inside patiently, well maybe not so patiently because he was forcing himself to stop chewing his lip by blocking his mouth with a hand.

He was never the 'nervous' type, definitely didn't look it, but this... this was making him so. The agonizing waiting, the questions nibbling at his chest, clawing at his brain. His muscles twitched in the ache to act, to know.

Clearing his throat in the silence, he finally grew the courage to ask, "Mike, what are we doing here?"

From the tombstones lined on the other side of the fence, he could only guess they were at a cemetery. But why had Mike taken him here?

"You said you wanted to make new friends, isn't that right John? Well, one of mine needed a favor," Mike shortly turned back towards John, smiling at him goofily, then staring back out the window at his original position.

Clearing his throat again, he continued, directly facing Mike's back now from the passenger seat, "Well, that's great and all, but one. I didn't say I wanted to make new friends. And two. I'm guessing we are in your friend's car; I know more than anyone you're one of the poorest blokes in town, you'd never be able to buy a car, not even one this old."

A warm laugh erupted from the bigger man's lips, causing him to hold his stomach with a hand, the other still clinging to the steering wheel, "Oh John, you've gotten funnier since 5th grade! I guess it is true that you didn't ask me that with your own mouth, but your eyes... they tell me a different story."

Instead of continuing this endless conversation, John just thought up the situation with the story he had. So, Mike had dragged him in this old, what was it, Chevy Impala, and started driving when he got a text from this 'friend' of his. And this was that 'friends' car. But what were they doing in front of a cemetery?

A gunshot went off in the direction of the tombstones, causing John to jump in fear and Mike to jump in excitement. "Oh finally, that blasted man is done! Here he comes now!"

Shouting ensued, only getting louder with each passing second. John watched a tall figure run from a slower, hobbling old man, shot gun equipped in his hairy hands. Under his breath, to himself more than to Mike, he whispered, "Is that... h-"

The figure sprinted to the back car door, flying inside, flopping his long body across the seat. The loud slam of the door shutting, the boy shouted, "Mike, drive!"

The old man waddled to the front windshield of the car, pointing up his shot gun at Mike and John, his finger already moving to the trigger. Still not in motion, John grabbed the knob, turning the car from park to reverse, and pressed down on Mike's leg that rested on the gas pedal. The car shot back, just as the gun fired, most of the blast missed, other shards of shot gun ammunition planted themselves in the glass before John.

Before they made it to the street, Mike activated back into control again, changing gears forward and spinning the car in a circle violently. The passengers flew from side to side, gripping onto objects nearby to stay in their seats. They sped down the street, leaving the old man behind. After a few labored breaths from all of them, they giggled silently at first then grew louder as their nerves shook out of their systems. Breathless, John joked with a huff of air, "T-that was... close."

He grinned, looking up into the rear view mirror at Mike's friend. 

The man's head was worn with a messy mop of dark, curly hair, face angled and cheeks wrinkled with a pointed grin of his own. John just stopped and stared at the mirror, at the man. The brunette must have sensed this and looked up after his laugh, catching John's eyes in the reflective surface. They were so pale. So blue.

Mike glanced over, noticing their staring contest, and smiling to himself. "This is my old friend John. John Watson."

They simultaneously said hello, the man smirking at John through the mirror. He spoke, calm, dark, knowing, "So, John. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

This froze John. W-what was he... how did he...? John turned sideways in the passenger seat, back to the car door, facing towards this 'friend'. "Excuse me?"

"I asked Afghanistan or Iraq? Your father has been over seas hasn't he?"

After a moment of hesitation, John replied back, "Iraq. But how did yo-"

"There are a lot of things I can guess John. It's all deduction and a little brain work," the man replied, tapping his head, his pale eyes playful, cunning.

Turning to Mike, who seemed too focused on the road, John asked, "Did you tell him about me?"

Another goofy smile left him, "No, I didn't. That's the great thing about him John. He just knows."

Countering the man, John focused on him, "So, how did you know my father was over seas then?"

A light shown in the man's eyes, "Well, by the way your eyes are red and under your eyes are a little more than creased, I can tell you either smoke or are under great stress with little sleep. But you don't seem the type to smoke, especially if you hang around with such a 'classy' man as Mike here is. I'm sure you miss him and worry about him even when you try to sleep."

John's face heated a little in embarrassment. How could he guess all this from his eyes?

"You also wear very, practical clothes, military taught more than likely, underneath hiding the extra pair of your father's dog tags around your neck, the chain on the back of your neck giving them away. Your hair is shaven military style, short, and you're cleanly shaven. I'm assuming your father is a doctor?"

Dazzled, John merely nodded. 

"I thought so. Most doctors are required to be clean of hair in the face, an idea I'm sure your father passed down to you. And by the sew up job you did on your sleeve there, I could tell that was a doctor's stitch."

Huffing, the man seemed to have finished. John just stared at him. Did he really get all that just by looking at him? That's... that's so...

"Amazing."

This caught the man off guard, his gaze meeting John's again. He laughed, a sharp, short breath, almost a sigh, "Well, that's different. That's not what people usually say."

Curious, John questioned him. "What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."


End file.
